THERE'S SOMETHING DROWNING HERE

private multimuse blog for lutocity

[sensumsonder]

KIT & TASMIN.

⁑⁑

“That can’t be healthy!“ she warns, though there is laughter in her eyes, as her hand reaches out to accept the bottle of water. "But yeah, I agree. It’s surprisingly difficult. I have rehearsals stretching into late hours some days, so I get coffee — except I’m even more tired in the morning after that.” Tamsin grimaces ruefully, both at her statement and at how she’s going on about her mild addiction to caffeine without asking Kit how her life has been. “Anyway! Enough about me and my… unhealthy relationship with coffee. What’s new with you? When did you start working here?”

Ramón. Kit has mentioned the name a couple of times in their text exchanges. “That’s your friend, right?” They used to share everything — and the fact that Tamsin doesn’t know who he is reminds her that they’ve got years worth of catching up to do. It fills her up with a feeling that is both sad and sweet. “Unfortunately not included,” she lets out a giggle. “I’d go with you if I wasn’t in the play.”

☾—;

“Probably not, but it might be a little better for me than crack, so there’s an upside,” Kit points out through a slightly sardonic kind of grin, her eyebrows jumping playfully. “Let’s see... Late last year, so I think we’re... seven months in now? Something like that.” 

Kit leads Tasmin to the leather chair in front of her booth, a plethora of products and tools lining every surface available for her to cover. She drapes a black barber cape over her friend’s shoulders, snapping it in place and running her hands through Tasmin’s hair. “He’s a good kid. I’ll have to introduce you guys after the show. Maybe we can grab drinks or something when you got a minute.” 

Her smile stretches wide at the offer, snicker shaking free. “Always got my back, T. I appreciate you, man. So!” She picks up either end of Tasmin’s hair, pulling the strands up and letting them fall back into place. “What are we doing with all this? Keratin and a blow out?”

[sensumsonder]

KIT & ARCHIE.

—

“In a very kinky reverse harem?” 

While definitely not the case, Archie’s quick to distract from the violent suggestion in the other’s words, brows and grin hopping to finish off his well-intentioned joke. 

“Oh–” his phone dings when the train whizzes past another station, the few bars of signal welcoming an onslaught of notifications from various apps. Much to Archie’s dismay, Tinder isn’t one of them. Then again, he had said he was late. Archie types up a quick response, so it’s at the ready for when he gets reception once more. “Just a date,” he replies, eyes lifting to meet Kit’s again, “he’s so cute, though. Blue hair. Real nice. And he does parkour.”

☾—;

Alright, the kid’s funny. The joke gets him a snort and a fond sort of smile that remains fixed on her face even as she shakes her head.

It’s not unusual for Kit to be... relatively nosey. And with Archie being this open, she can’t help but try to sneak a glance at his phone screen from over his shoulder. She’s quick to stand down as she realizes he doesn’t have the app open. “Oh, shit, parkour too? You better lock it down, put a ring on it.”

[sensumsonder]

WESLEY & BERNICE.

—

“Which is what I was thinking, too, right. He could’ve paid them off, but it’s a small discotheque. I mean– sure, it was the seventies, people were all over clubs and stuff, but… I don’t know. It could’ve had something to do with trafficking? Or drugs? I just don’t know.”

She slams the folder shut. The confusion’s wiped clean from her face, eyebrows and mouth lifting until she’s fixing a hopeful little grin on her friend. “Guess we gotta go in, man! Meddling Kids style.”

The groan he lets out is absolutely pathetic, akin to a kitten’s mewl, as he slumps back into his seat and pouts. “Of course,” he sighs, eyes rolling up to the ceiling just before he picks himself back up in his seat. “You had way too much unmonitored Scooby Doo viewing as a kid,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair and tugging his fringe back on top of his head.

“Alright, so based on how this usually goes, I’m assuming we’re sneaking into some abandoned, creepy-as-all-Hell place on Friday night, wandering around looking for clues, maybe having a run in with the cops, and then hitting up the ER for tetanus shots— that sound about right?”

[sensumsonder]

MATTY & RAMÓN.

—

Ramón merely pulls out his wallet, from it, his card, and presses it for a moment to his mouth. He raises his eyebrows, then turns to the manager, who looks vaguely bemused by his response. Ram’s used to it; he doesn’t bat an eyelid when he slots the card into the machine and punches in his PIN.

“Alright, fellas. If you just wait over there, I’ll grab Rory and he’ll get y’all geared up.” “Thanks,” Ramón grins. With a flowery flourish, he waves Matty to the seating area: a few uncomfortable looking armchairs with wooden armrests and navy blue cushions one would expect to find in a teachers’ lounge, or a hospital waiting room. “After you.”

☾—;

Matty would argue they can split the damn cost, but he did tell Ramón to put his money where his mouth is, so he supposes that’s a pretty sure way of doing it. That, and he becomes a little distracted by the sharp edge of Ramón’s card digging into the plushness of his lower lip, making it jut out on either side. He drags his eyes back to the cashier as the card slips into the reader, but the slightly smug look on the dude’s face has Matty’s eyes on the ceiling.

Shortly after he’s slumped onto one of the chairs, his legs spread into a wide V, hands settle on the wooden rim of the seat just before the underside of his knuckles start to drum against it. “I’m not usually one for small talk, but I gotta admit, I’m curious about whatcha been up to without me keepin’ ya company. Ya didn’t miss me too much, did ya?”

[sensumsonder]

THALIA & NIGEL.

Nigel is clueless, obviously, to Thalia’s abilities, let alone the things she can sense in his words and his gestures; all he knows is that she is an excellent journalist with a wickedly sharp intuition, blissfully oblivious to the extent of its power. Frankly, anything beyond the normal is dismissed by him. He is no stranger to the scary stories the interns like to tell, of course ― the basement floor that should not exist and whatnot. If that’s what they require to amuse themselves throughout the trudge of the workday, he lets it slide without judgment.

“Oh, wow. What’s the occasion?” he marvels with a slight laugh, in that joking way that doesn’t particularly call for a real answer. Sensing the casual brush of her arm against his, he takes the offered elbow.

The two of them make their way down the icy street. Nigel tries to keep track of the path, a task that proves to be more difficult than he believed as she takes unexpected turns, leading him through an unfamiliar neighborhood. He should say something. Weather talk? He’s had enough of that today, though. It’s what everyone at work was chatting about: the bizarreness of it, speculations about a meteorological explanation, bemoaning the commute back home. He doesn’t know Thalia well enough to feel comfortable inquiring about her private life. 

“Do you go to Belladonna’s often?” A safe topic, given their destination. He pushes the sunglasses up his nose. “I’ve been a couple of times, but it’s, ah, well. It kinda gets too loud sometimes.”

☾—;

Thalia’s always tried not to pry. Even when Nigel’s skin presses warm through the thickness in their coats, Thalia tries not to sort through all the bleak, colorless feelings he covers up with his sunshiny demeanor. She wonders if it’s always like this with Nigel. Come to think of it, she can’t seem to remember the last time she’d seen him visibly upset. Does he always feel this deeply? No, she shouldn’t pry. She’s always prided herself on being a psychic, not a snoop.

The corners of her lips tilt up into a fond smile that seeps into her voice as she answers, “Not too often. I tend to find it a bit too loud myself. But they’ve got this one bartender, Louie? Makes the best damn Long Island iced tea on this side of Luto, so it’s worth the sacrifice. Some nights are decently quiet, though, so we might be alright.”

She doesn’t want to be that person who’s always talking about work and never seems to move onto other subjects, but she can’t seem to shake the recurring dream that’s been following her for the better part of the week. “Hey, Nigel? That piece about the affordable housing construction happening on the south side... I think we should lay off of it for a bit.”

[sensumsonder]

JAVIER & AYUMI.

HEAT FROM BELOW AND ABOVE / ayumi & javier @sensumsonder

Lights have gone out. The gentle hum of the air conditioning has stopped. A quick glance at her phone reveals that she’s getting no reception, no Internet. Ayumi tightens her grip on the strap of her messenger bag slung over one shoulder. A blackout, she guesses. Though she has never heard of cell service going down like this. How can that happen in this day and age? There has to be hundreds of cell towers in Luto City, and each of them must have security measures and backup power sources. It’s not that the signal is bad―she’s not getting any signal. Practically every single cell tower in the area has to be damaged in order for that to happen.

The university library in the dark has a silently threatening feel to it, as if the walls are caving in on her inch by inch. It’s eerie. Yumi doesn’t believe in the supernatural, but she is the child of immigrants, after all. She grew up with shinto beliefs in the household, hearing folk tales about yokai that creep in the night. Her loafers hit the wooden floor, the squeaky clicking sound resonating in the hallway; she makes noise, loud and disruptive, in an attempt to shake off the shiver going down her spine. (Why the hell is it so empty in here? Where is everyone?)

She climbs over the closed electronic gate with a grunt, finally walking over to the main entrance. Everything’s under control now. She just needs to get in her car, drive home, see if the Internet is back―

The door rattles, but firmly stays closed. Wiping at the thin sheet of sweat on her brow, she pushes against it with her body this time. And again. And again. It doesn’t budge.

“No, no, no, fuck!” Her hand shoots up, covering her mouth with a closed fist. Cold, hard dread creeps inside her. It’s locked. How is it locked? Why is it locked? “Ah!” she yells out, taken aback when a figure emerges from the shadows ―- who, adding to her surprise, turns out to be a semi-familiar face.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes in relief, chest heaving. The two of them may not be on the friendliest of terms, but she’s too scared to care about any of that right now. 

☾—;

Why is it that all Hell breaks loose as soon as Javier’s got a pen in his hand? 

He’d been halfway through the stack of papers he’d assigned over a week ago. Poor planning on his part, though he’d insisted he was mostly done when any of his anxious, sleep-deprived and caffeine-powered students worked up the courage to ask him about them. He’s always making those little mistakes, telling white lies because they sound pretty until they pile up around him, much like the papers leaving him hazy-eyed and braindead the more he works at them. The lights had cut out just as he’d finished his sentence, and he’s not sure whether to be grateful or bitter.

Javi’s never liked the dark. What was once an irrational, childhood fear has grown along with him, sunk its teeth in and planted roots he’s fairly sure are connected to his stomach. At least that’s what it feels like when he swallows, feels something tugging from the back of his throat and sinking into the center of his gut, twisting and twisting...

By the time he’s made it to his feet, his hands are a little shaky. So is his breathing, something that’s all the more apparent in the cavernous, black space around him. It seems endless, somehow, despite the fact he knows there were walls around him not too long before. His hand reaches for one, and he leaves the papers abandoned in their corners in favor of walking outside where the moon offers just a sigh of relief. That is until a cry knocks into his chest like a surge of electricity.

“Hah—hi, Yoshimoto.” It doesn’t come out nearly as smoothly as he’d hoped, but it’s difficult keeping much of anything “smooth” given the erratic, malfunctioning thrum of his heart. “Sorry— sorry. I thought I was the only one out here; I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”

[sensumsonder]

date: june 30th time: 1:17 pm location: city street status: open

At face value, the couple on the park bench across the street makes no sense. They seem happy, sure, the woman tilting her head back and letting out a fluttery, sweet little laugh. The man seems to be playfully defending some part of a story he’s just shared based on his wide smile and hand gestures. What Sloane can’t put together is why the super model gorgeous tall and tanned woman is even talking to Mr. Receding Hairline. Sure, maybe the whole being a lesbian thing is putting a mental block on her, but Sloane can’t think of a single thing that could check off an attractive feature box when it comes to this dude.

She purses her lips and turns to the person next to her. “How much you wanna bet he’s like a super socially awkward tech developer with an insane amount of money? This is just not something that could occur naturally. Like, in nature. No way.”

[sensumsonder]

KIT & ARCHIE.

The carriage jostles. Its passengers, both sitting and standing, sway along. Every now and then, a flash of fluorescent lights will illuminate a fleeting glance at a passing station, people milling about the platforms gazing down at their endless stream of emails despite the nonexistent cell reception. Sometimes, though, Archie’s picks some up. His phone buzzes now, and he whips it out at such a speed one could be convinced he’d had it in his hand the entire time. A message from his tinder date, Dalton, asking if he’s there already, and mentioning the possibility of arriving a little late himself. Before Archie can reply, the train’s back in the tunnel, and the reception’s gone.

“You’re right,” he chuckles, flashing the woman a grin while he pockets his phone.·“But I appreciate the honesty, y’know? You’re keeping it very real and I respect that.”

☾—;

“Gotta keep it real, man,” Kit says by way of an argument, shrugging her shoulders and looking up at the train’s ceiling. “If I didn’t, I’d have let you off with some of them ‘brutes,’ and then where would we be?” Something about her question makes hair stand on her arms. Maybe it isn’t her question at all, maybe it’s the answer to that question, following her in a whisper just low enough that she can’t distinguish any noise at all.

“Who was that from?” she ends up asking, eyes flashing down at the phone and back up at Archie, a little smirk on her face. In her own experience, whipping out her own phone that feverishly could only mean one of a few things: hook-up, cute girl liking her Instagram post, or a Twilight Zone and ice cream-filled night with Ramón. “Seems like it was someone special.”

[sensumsonder]

KIT & TASMIN.

“And so do you! Just gorgeous!” Smiling from ear to ear, Tamsin happily lets herself be grabbed and thrown about in excitement, holding onto the elbows of her dear friend. She realizes, with sharp intensity, that texts and calls had never been enough from the start; the rush of warmth she feels upon seeing Kit’s face in person is incomparable.

“Oh, water’s fine. I’m trying to cut back on caffeine, actually. Emphasis on trying,” she adds, chuckling. Casual, joking remarks do not come easy to her. There is a certain hesitation to how Tamsin mulls over and handpicks the words she will speak with care―perhaps too much care, as she’s been told―that shows up in her thoughtful pauses and fidgeting fingers. However, with Kit, she is able to dial down the filter, the ease and comfort embracing her frame.

“Hang on, I got somethin’ for youー” Before her friend can usher her towards a chair, she rummages her purse, eventually pulling out an envelope containing two tickets to Hamlet. “For the play I told you about!” she explains, her wide grin turning just a touch nervous as she hands it over to Kit. “Two invites for you and your plus one.”

☾—;

“Mmm, we’ve all been there,” Kit agrees, bending by the waist to wrestle with the mini-fridge door and produce a bottle of Fiji water, a brand she’s always found horrendously pretentious, but her manager insists on stocking their fridges with time and time again. 

“Y’know, I think whenever I try to quit caffeine, I always end up drinkin’ more, y’know? Like I wake up sayin’ ‘today I’ll only have one cup of coffee’ and end up pounding back two Red Bulls at three in the afternoon.” It’s easy to talk to Tasmin as it always has been. Something about their connection transcends the judgement she always expects to see in people’s eyes. But never in Tasmin’s, that deep brown all quiet, summer nights and gatherings by the fire. Kit feels warm at the very sight of them.

“Oh, Tas,” Kit says with a shaky kind of laugh, one that’s appreciative and trepid all at once. “Thank you, that’s so sweet.” She takes a moment to peer at the tickets, scanning over the title, theater name, and seat assignments. “I’ll see if Ramón’s down to check it out with me.” She gives a pause, eyes bobbing back up to Tasmin. “Unless part of the gift was these tickets comin’ with a girlfriend, ‘cause, I mean... I wouldn’t be mad.”

[sensumsonder]

WESLEY & BERNICE.

“Wait until I tell ya the grizzly deets,” Bernice hums. She doesn’t, though, having learned to wait for permission before spewing out the gore. Wesley’s stomach has suffered enough at her expense.

Bernie slurps another mouthful down, scanning the printed documents and scribbled notes speckling the margins, her brows knitting slowly. 

“See,” she starts, tucking some noodles into the squishy pocket of her cheek while she talks, “that’s the weird thing. The cops who investigated the case shut it down, like, so fast. And the one leading the investigation resigned a week after? I don’t get it, man. I mean, it sounds like foul play, obviously, but they ruled it as mass suicide, and then, like… buried it. So.”

Bernice won’t have to remind him not to take another bite of her food; he’s certainly lost his appetite. “Yeah, gimme, like, thirty minutes to digest,” he suggests, eyebrows bunching up further in an obvious wince.

“Alright, so, dirty cops are nothing new,” Wesley muses aloud, something he knows he doesn’t have to voice, but it plays into his next sentence which is, “but do we think this guy had any ties to ‘em? Maybe they were burying it ‘cause... I mean, I don’t know. Normally this stuff applies to, like, billionaires who can pay it off. How much money did this guy have running a small business like that?”

[sensumsonder]

MATTY & RAMÓN.

He’s pretty sure the thrill rushing into his stomach should not be there. Nor should the dopey smile growing on his lips, something Ramón can at least hide behind the defiant tilt of his chin. He narrows his eyes. “Did you? Promise? Because I distinctly remember that I promised you you’d be going down. So.” The hiss that follows finishes his point– What can you do, right?

His head tilts smugly from one side to the other; before Matty can do more than appreciate his clearly-very-clever-comeback-thank-you, Ramón brushes past him, giving Matty’s sleeve a quick yank to pull him along.

A blast of hot air greets them when the pair steps into the reception area. It’s near empty, something that comes as no surprise, given the weather conditions. The portly, moustached man lounging behind the register looks up from his magazine (Fisherman’s Monthly) and seems to startle. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he greets them, setting aside his reading material. “Hi!” Ramón grins, hands coming up to rest on the tall desk’s edge. He drums his fingers once, twice, three times, excitement making his toes curl in his boots. “We only have one outdoor area open right now, just to let you know. It’s bigger, if you’re alright with risking the cold.” “I mean…” With a shrug, Ramón tilts his head, gaze floating over his shoulder to meet Matty’s. “I’m game if you are?”

“Not likely,” Matty says with a smirk, again keeping his words as vague as his smirk is broad. He’s a little caught off guard by the fingers snagging at the end of his sleeve, though, eyes lingering on Ramón’s hand. He’s a little more forward now than Matty would have ever anticipated him being, but he can’t bring himself to mind much at all.

He has to force down a snort at the store clerk’s greeting, like a great captain welcoming a couple new crew members onto his ship. Or maybe the fishing magazine is what’s planting these thoughts in Matty’s easily amused mind.

“Fine with me,” Matty assures with a nod, meeting Ramón’s eyes with no less intensity in his own. Sometimes conviction is all a man has, and while Matty hasn’t learned too many lessons from his father— nothing of value, at least— this is one that seems to always stick with him. “So long as you’re ready to put your money where your mouth is.”

[sensumsonder]

THALIA & NIGEL.

“Oh! Hi, Thalia,” he greets her, pleasantly surprised, with a slight turn of his head toward where she’s standing. Voices are difficult to remember, he needs frequent interactions―hers, however, is one that he can easily pick out, the two of them having worked together on a number of projects. “Defrosting sounds heavenly. Stick me in a microwave.” That’s a dad joke if there was one.

His interest piques at her suggestion. The noise level at bars―or clubs, or any place filled with drunk people and music―can be loud and overwhelming at times. He’s not Matt Murdock, alright, blind people don’t possess superpower-like hearing senses, despite what the general public may believe―- but sound is what Nigel mainly relies on to gather information about what’s going on around him. If Thalia’s right, though, perhaps he could let himself enjoy a drink or two with his colleague. It’s certainly a better option than stumbling his way through the snow, getting home, and wallowing in rage and self-pity in the kitchen by himself. (Is he being dramatic?)

“You know what, why not.” His smile widens. “I just gotta call Ian and let him know―he worries. Snow,” he adds by way of explanation, then feels for his phone in the inner pocket of his coat. Siri dutifully obliges his spoken order and dials Ian; it goes to voicemail after a few seconds. Nigel seethes silently. Every little thing that his husband does (or doesn’t do) has been grating on his nerves lately. He would be more than happy to just hang up, except he isn’t alone―so he does end up leaving a message (hey honey, I’m hanging out with a friend from work, don’t wait up, blah blah).

When that’s taken care of, he returns his focus to Thalia. “Which way is it?”

Thalia tries not to let the cringe tightening her chest appear on her face. If it does, it will likely seep into her voice, and Nigel doesn’t deserve the shame that could result. Even if his jokes absolutely do. But he needs a break from all the scrutiny, and Thalia’s happy to provide it.

She also tries not to notice as Nigel’s husband doesn’t pick up the phone. Ian, she knows, both from the few conversations in which Nigel’s mentioned him in passing and getting a whiff of his cologne one day at work. It started subtle, definitely, but the more she honed in on the scent of spice and musk the more she could feel the resentment attached to it. Nigel’s resentment. Not to the scent, she had realized with a bit of concentration, but the person attached to it, who it was reminding Nigel of. But despite her many premonitions, her ability to take in otherworldly knowledge with a little tickle working at her senses, Thalia is not a snoop. She tries to shut it off when she can, especially when it comes to information regarding those who she works closely with.

So she doesn’t comment or mention the way the tightness in Nigel’s chest is just barely pinching at Thalia’s, giving her a vague idea of his frustrations.

“Here,” she says at once, stepping closer and offering her elbow for him to slip his arm through. “It’s not far. I’ll even pay for the first round.”

[sensumsonder]

KIT & ARCHIE.

Something odd whispers from the back of his head. A muffled spark of realisation, trying to reveal something he’s long since misplaced. Archie’s avid gaze searches the woman’s button features, as if another one of her expressions can give whatever’s fading back into the mist a final, hard yank. All he finds is friendly taunts, tickling a piggish chuckle out of him, snorts and all.

“And how do you know,” Archie starts, dropping into a convincing enough mid-Atlantic accent, “that I’m not one of those dangerous brutes?”

She likes this kid. Even if there’s just a little something about the energy he gives off that she can’t quite place, something that makes a wavering and almost dreamlike sensation pop up in her mind, like watching heatwaves become visible as they rise from the blacktop. In another moment she realizes how strange it is she can picture them among all the slush and cold just beyond the subway.

“Mm, given the fact you just said ‘brutes’ outside the context of 1935? I gotta be honest, signs are pointing to nah, man. Hate to break it to ya.”

[sensumsonder]

KIT & TASMIN.

HOMECOMING / tamsin & kit @sensumsonder·

With rehearsals for Hamlet full in session, Tamsin can only spare the weekend to get her hair braided before the play starts running. There was some hesitation before she made the call to Kit, since Twisted Scissors is a popular spot among locals, therefore likely much busier on Saturdays; her friend, however, was quick to reassure her and book a slot for her right away. Though they have kept in touch through text messages and phone calls, it’s been years since they last saw each other in person. This will be a day for some long overdue catching up.

Tamsin does worry, though, because she is the kind of person to get ahead of herself and absent-mindedly imagine all the possible scenarios of the reunion going wrong. (What if it’s awkward? What if she ends up discovering that the two of them have nothing in common anymore?) But as soon as she opens the door of the salon, soft gaze landing on her childhood friend, all such thoughts are wiped away, only leaving a broad smile upon her face.

“Hi!” she exclaims in glee as she steps inside ― into the colorful, energetic vortex of beautiful graffiti and music. It’s perfect for Kit; this is exactly what she would have imagined. Tamsin pulls in her friend for a warm hug, the full-blown smile on her face turning into a laugh. “Oh my God, I missed you so much, you don’t even know. It’s been forever!”

It’s easy for Kit to lose herself in the pain of swollen feet or the cramps settling in her knuckles, crawling towards he palm from the hours spent massaging scalps, twisting strands of hair tightly until they become a masterpiece. But Kit makes it through every day, chattering with customers, slurping down berry smoothies she wishes she could mix with vodka. 

But today, there’s something else keeping her holding on. The promise of seeing Tasmin has her working through her appointments a bit more quickly, snipping hair with an expert hand just to make sure nothing delays their reunion.

As soon as she’s in sight, Kit lets out a shrill “ahhh!” a sound rarely heard from her and certainly reserved for the likes of Tasmin. She’s practically jumping into the other woman’s arms, pulling her in tight and practically throwing her from side to side. “Girl, tell me about it! You look so good; lookit you!” She pulls in a gasp, but manages to collect herself, jaw dropped and hands pressed against her heart.

“You need anything before we start? Water? Coffee? Got some pretty sick flavors of creamers, honestly.”

[sensumsonder]

WESLEY & BERNICE.

She needn’t say anything. Wes’ sure touch will undoubtedly find its way to his unread texts; among them, one from the accused herself. All Bernice does is quirk a bushy brow, perfectly combed into an upward direction and moulded into place by strong, clear gel. A dusting of sky blue on a cloudy day lays calmly on her eyelids, peeking at Wesley whenever she blinks.

Her tongue bounces off the roof of her mouth in disappointment when Wesley steals her food. “Cut it out,” Bernie groans, tucking the bowl behind her curved arm, an impregnable fort defending its pillaged riches. The little spikes of irritation fizzle out quick enough. She’s too preoccupied highlighting a particularly odd succession of events, yellow highlighter as bright as Sip ‘n’ Slurp’s buzzing neon sign clinging to the black ink on her printed page: All nine victims found with finger and toenails removed, along with canines and left eye.

“Actually, yeah,” she says, cramming some udon and pork into her mouth before Wes makes another swipe for it. She holds a hand up while she chews, continuing, “I found this one case from the seventies. Nine girls from Glenwood High were found in this old discotheque’s basement– the place is, like, totally rundown now; the old owner kept trying to sell it and then he died…”

Wesley doesn’t give her much of a reaction in turn, the corners of his lips perking in a smirk that makes it seem as though he’s keeping his amusement tucked behind the tiny purse of his lips. He chews at the last of the udon, slicking the sauce off his lips with a little flick of his tongue.

She manages to knock any signs of amusement clean off his face, though, replacing it with a cringe drawing his spine rigid and leaving something worming through his entire stomach.

“Gross,” he mutters, though his mind says something else: fucking creepy. He’d managed to remain perfectly ignorant (and thus, blissful) about Luto City’s grim, lingering history until Bernice had wandered into his life. Well, it wasn’t like she was telling him these tales when they were six, but as soon as she could read newspapers and articles written by washed up kooks claiming to be “paranormal investigators,” Bernice was talking his ear off about them. And thoroughly terrifying him.

“So, was the owner ever tried for it or anything? Or were there other... suspects?” He tries not to condemn the man outright, but the idea of a creepy dude keeping girls in his basement isn’t exactly something new, nor is it a theory he can shake from his mind as soon as it’s entered.

[sensumsonder]

WESLEY & EMIL.

For a long moment Emil thinks he’s serious and his cheeks deepen to an even profounder shade of scarlet. Despite the cold, he was burning up. He only calms (and even then, not by much) when he spies the ghost of a smile on Wes’ lips.

“It might not be very good,” he blurts, though he’s not sure why. Wes had seen his work plenty of times and had always been encouraging. And yet there was something so intimidating and intimate about showing another person something he’d made, in a manner of speaking. He wonders if authors and painters felt the same way about their own projects. 

Emil takes the seat next to Wes on the bench, wary not to get too close nor too far. He slips the worn camera strap form his neck and hands it to his friend, watching as he thumbs through the camera’s menu. Though he was eager to see Wes’ reaction, he also wanted to get a look at the photo himself. To see if it’d been framed well; if he had managed to capture the illusive nature of the grey, snowy light. A miniature of Wes popped up on the small screen. Not half bad, Emil thought gazing down at the photo, though he thinks maybe that’s just because it was a picture of Wes and not for any reason having to do with him or his skills. The shallow depth of field blurred the background behind him to a hazy white, making the boy’s hair look redder in contrast. Red on white. “Oh, well, that’s not that bad actually,” Emil says. “You look really pensive. And cold.” 

“You say that every time,” Wes reminds him, a snicker working its way up his throat, a little wobbly, a little unsure. Still, he doesn’t egg Emil on any more than that, waiting for Emil to come to him like he’s a startled animal that’s decided to grace Wesley with his presence, Wesley’s job now only to avoid startling him with any sudden movements.

His eyes are steady on Emil as he sits, drags the camera strap over his neck and leans just the least bit closer, pushing the camera between them. Emil’s focus seems to be on the camera settings, allowing Wesley to stare just a moment longer. Emil has a nice profile, one Wesley’s become very familiar with as they sat side by side nearly every day in their photography class. It’s given Wesley the chance to admire it time and time again, recognize just how much it looks like one of those Greek statues that will alway leave someone so inclined to comment on its never-fading beauty. Sitting here staring at it... Wesley thinks he finally gets why.

Shit, focus. Wesley drags his eyes down to the camera screen. Somehow, Emil manages to make him look better through a lens than Wes has ever seen himself in the mirror. His chin finds its place on Emil’s shoulder, its usual perch when trying to get a better look at a photo. They’re friends, after all, he can do this. This is safe. As is shifting to press his cheek against it as a snort jumps up his nose; he doesn’t want the air from his nostrils to hit Emil in the face.

“I can definitely vouch for cold. I think my toes are gonna fall off in, like, point five. You wanna warm up with a cig?”

[sensumsonder]

MATTY & RAMÓN.

He has to pull a breath deep into his belly, feeling his entire body expand as if, were it to grow enough in size, he would be worthy of some accidental touch. Snow crunches beneath his boots; when he rocks on the balls of his feet, he falls into rhythm with Matty’s easy footsteps. For the length of one trembling exhale, Ramón wishes he could be beneath those imprints left in his wake, a porter of Matty’s mark, demanding that the world see he’d been here. His voice is loud– some would even say brash –calling out an insult for the world around them. Ramón can only laugh, and delight in the way the sounds dance around each other like playful foxes wrestling on the ground.“Not if she kills us first,” he returns, grin as unshakeable as the glitter still dusting along his cheeks.

“Hi,” Ramón laughs. His fingers twitch by his side, and he almost gives into the temptation to land a welcoming clap on Matty’s arm, finish it off with a squeeze. His palm can only imagine the shape of Matty when Ramón chickens out.

“Freezing my nads off, man. How about you? Find the place okay?”

Matty clicks his tongue in that way that always points out to the other what an excellent point they’ve just made. “Shit, true,” he mutters, hands budging into the pockets of his jeans that aren’t doing much to warm the goosebumps rising on his legs. He’s looking forward to getting out of here, finding a bar to take shelter in, sipping whiskey under amber lights, letting his thigh rest on Ramón’s as the too-close barstools will give him the excuse to do.

“Yeah, yeah. Ice on the windshield fucked me over. But don’t think I’m chickenin’ out, Bambi Eyes. I’m here to take you down as promised.”

There are plenty of contexts to that statement, many of which he’ll keep locked away in the back of his mind, safe from Ramón’s ears, though it doesn’t mean they aren’t at least a little present in Matty’s eyes as they settle on Ramón’s.